A Voice in the Dark
by bluRaaven
Summary: After his betrayal by Igmund Ulfric, still not recovered from the war and his captivity, wakes to find himself imprisoned once more; this time deep beneath Markarth, a city he has come to loathe almost as much as its corrupt, sycophantic ruler. He does not expect anything good to come out of that dump of a place, but surprisingly it does, in the form of the only company he has.
1. Chapter 1

Part 5 of the 'Price of Freedom' series. While it is advisable to read parts 1-4 (especially part 4!) it is not an absolute necessity.  
WARNING in the AN at the bottom.

* * *

Ulfric is slow to wake to the throbbing in his head timed with the beating of his heart. He either has the worst hangover ever, or-

Or somebody knocked him out even as they butchered his guard around him.

He fully jerks into consciousness to darkness and a cool, damp draft. Behind his eyelids Jytte's head dissolves again to spray blood, brain matter and shards of bone on her Jarl and lover. Not that they are the same person. Ulfric has not touched a woman since...since the events that led him disinclined to do so in first place. But he can hear Fjori's anguished shout as the pretty brunette's head crumbles onto itself. Fjori, who has been his friend since they had shared a tent in the Legion. Fjori who suddenly sprouts a spear through his neck, who had survived four years of war and the elves' ruinous magic to die choking on his own blood and reaching out to the corpse of the woman who carried his child.

Ulfric catches sight of an eyeball and a part of the jaw, teeth still remarkably intact lying in a pool of blood and draws air into his lungs, despite reeling from shock. There are more screams as his other soldiers are overwhelmed and he does not recall whether he manages unleash that Shout because the rest is only blackness.

_Betrayed_. He has been betrayed. It seems he is doomed to suffer that fate from those whom he believed to be his allies. First the Empire, now Igmund. The former fallen so that a Colovian noble could keep his throne and afford all the luxuries the Dominion has to offer and the second succumbed to fear and whispers from poisonous tongues and bought off with promises of land and power to sate his greed.

Once more Markarth has proved its saying to be true. Blood and silver.

Blood of his soldiers covering the polished stones of the city in slick rivulets of crimson and silver from the mines to acquire the silence of any possible witnesses.

This time though he will not remain a prisoner. He is not helpless, and he is backed by an army, the bulk of which is still stationed inside the city. Suddenly he feels a pang of relief at sending Galmar away. A bad idea it might have been, but it saved his housecarl's life. He had long ago devoted his life to protecting his friend, and Ulfric is happy to return the favour.

Without anything else to do, Ulfric raises his hand to his head and gently probes at the sore area. His fingers come away sticky and he rubs them together. The action causes the faintest odour of his blood to rise to his nose, a smell he is more familiar with than he cares to think about.

His breath falls into a deep but quick rhythm that he is all too conscious of.

The Nord tries to focus on other things. Like the absence of shackles that he would have expected to be there in such a place. He does not have to see to know that he is in a dungeon again. He knows the distinct feeling of one. The cold, clammy air of a place far underground surrounded by thick walls. The smell of mould and wet stone and the never-ending sound of water dripping and the scurrying of small feet echoing through the empty space.

Ulfric imagines he can hear voices higher up. He sits up and strains his ears, but try as he might he cannot make out what they are saying. The warrior imagines Igmund, the faithless spawn of some half-Nord bitch and his goat sire issuing orders to his guards and it brings up memories that boil over in a hazy mist of fury the colour of Jytte's blood.

"IGMUND, YOU DUPLICITOUS BASTARD! WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE I WILL HAND YOUR TRAITOROUS HEAD TO THE FORSWORN! YOU BETTER START SLEEPING WITH YOUR EYES OPEN, YOU CRAVEN BOOTLICKER!"

It is beyond enough to provoke a duel. He may not be in form or in good health but he has his anger wrapped around him tightly, like that cloak that has become a part of his name and there is always the Voice and Igmund knows that. The conversation stops for the longest while. The Jarl does not come down to face his captive's charges.

Oily smoke curls in plumes of black from a single tallow candle the nervous guards left for him so that he can find his way around in the dark. The food they brought was disgusting, barely better than offal from the kitchens. Ulfric briefly chokes on the overcooked vegetables, stringy meat and white clots of fat, but he manages to swallow it all and keep it down. There is no cure to being picky better than war and starvation.

His prison consists of two walls and iron bars that he cannot Shout apart because the power of his Voice will go right past them. He could try Shouting at the stonework, but the chances are high it will either avail him nothing or bring down the whole place on top of his head. Either would be bad.

The cell is rather spacious and covered in straw that smells of horse, but empty. He has a pallet that does not look as much filthy as it does old and a roughly spun blanket. Other than that there is only a bucket for him to shit in. Again, he tells himself he suffered worse, although the indignity of it burns under his skin.

_There_, he had been a prisoner of war. _Here_, an honoured guest.

For a nation that prides itself on beauty and perfection he has found the elves' minds are full of the most vile atrocities only perverted sadists can come up with.

He half-expects to see _her_ again.

Somebody else comes for him instead. Footsteps, he can hear them resonate – slow and heavy.

It's not one of the guards to bring his food. Ulfric does not know how much time has passed, down here it is all too easy to lose track of it. His candle will burn for a good six hours at least. The rest of the time he has to spend in the pitch black of underground. When the light is out he lets himself fall into a fevered state of unconsciousness that is neither restful, nor can it be called sleep.

He hopes to be released now that several weeks must have passed. Igmund has made his point. After all he has done and been through Ulfric did not expect to be left to rot down here. He is having second thoughts.

The man who arrives does nothing to alleviate them. Ulfric recognizes the hefty Nord with braided blond hair and amber eyes. He watches impassively as the lad pulls a loaf of bread from his bag and hopes the growling of his stomach is inaudible. The other man seems to waver between handing it over and laying it upon the none too clean ground.

Ulfric decides to help out. "Why don't you just throw it at me?"

The warrior looks at him emotionlessly as the seconds stretch between them. "If that is what you want."

Ulfric's head hits the wall at his back none too gently. "What I want, _boy_, is for you to sod off."

"Alright." The food disappears again as the other man turns to leave. "Have fun in the dark", he throws over his shoulder. "On your own."

"Wait!", Ulfric calls after him, gets up with difficulty because his knee almost buckles beneath his weight. He has to grit his teeth but he manages to force out an apology. "I am sorry. That was uncalled for." He approaches the bars and reaches out in a manner that he hopes appears grateful rather than greedy. "Thank you."

The other Nord hands over his little gift and all Ulfric can think of is that he has not had real bread in ages. When he looks up again it is to find himself under the scrutiny of his visitor. The lad made his delivery, but now he lingers.

Ulfric is not some curiosity to be gawked at. He scowls and walks back to his pallet to slowly sink down on it. "Do you want something else?"

"I wanted to look at the man whose orders killed my brother and friends and ripped my family apart."

"Well?" Ulfric's words have almost doomed a nation; he finds it difficult to care for one measly family. "You've seen him."

"You look different than you did at the parade." The lad makes to introduce himself. "I'm-"

"Yes, I know who you are", Ulfric interrupts the other Nord and reclines, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I have lost my freedom, not my memory."

Ulfric's bitter response apparently robs his visitor of the last patience and desire to deal with his dark mood. He inclines his head in farewell. "It was nice meeting you, Ulfric Stormcloak."

* * *

**AN:** If you are uncomfortable with any of the following topics, you might want to refrain from reading this fanfic: graphic depictions of violence, death and torture, blood, gore, abuse, crude language, homosexuality or otherworldly religion.

I can't be the only one thinking that there is something incredibly hot and satisfying in picturing Ulfric bellow swearwords in that gorgeous voice of his.

I wanted to get this out as a kind of placeholder for part 5 of the series because it will be a lengthy affair. Part 6 should be up soon, but updates for this story will be slow and probably not before I finish BtS.


	2. Chapter 2

Ulfric does not expect to see the lad again after his overtly unwelcoming attitude, but he does and it is with mixed feelings that he watches him set a torch into one of the iron holders. Unlike the last time the blond warrior is wearing a skilfully wrought armour well above what a common guard can afford and he has a bag slung over one broad shoulder that he sets on the ground carefully before straightening and turning to the prisoner.

"How are you?" There is only the faintest trace of wariness staining his otherwise friendly tone.

"Enjoying myself." Ulfric can hear the other man's heavy exhale at his cutting response and is not sure whether it is not quite a laugh or just plain exasperation.

"You don't look like it."

Ulfric sits up, not comfortable with the warrior's presence, but he does not want to give up on his hopefully convincing appearance of indifference. "Well, that's because I can't let anybody know that I secretly like to slum it in prisons all over Tamriel."

"Huh." The lad only grunts in answer and Ulfric wonders if he might be weak of mind to miss such evident sarcasm – until he catches a glimpse of the faintest of smirks. "Which one's your favourite, so far?"

A silent glare is the only reply the other man gets as the Jarl builds up his courage to enquire "What happened to my men?"

_He remembers asking her a similar question. He regretted it soon enough. _

But his companion is a Nord, not an Altmer and that was _then,_ not _now_, and though he still against all reason expects to convulse with pain any second, no bolt of white-hot electricity follows. Markarth. He is in Markarth, he has to remember.

Ulfric cannot tell whether the blond warrior notices the chill that seems to have gotten hold of him and if so, whether he cares at all. His demeanour remains unchanged as he explains that "Most were imprisoned. They have been set free by now."

"They will come for me", the Jarl's son speaks with conviction. He did not notice getting up, but suddenly he finds himself in front of the other man, his further way cut off by bars.

The lad looks at him with a mixture of pity and sympathy and declares that, "No they won't. They leave for Windhelm ere the month is over."

Traitors, all of them! Ulfric cannot believe that he is being abandoned here, not by Igmund but by his own trusted allies. "What could have cowed my father's liegemen?", he asks, voice low and dangerous.

The answer, when it comes, is worse than an actual physical blow could ever be. "Igmund has threatened to hand you over to the Thalmor if they didn't comply."

Ulfric comes back to himself to find the wall at his back. "Will you?" If it comes to that, he will force them to kill him, he decides and takes comfort in the resolution.

"Not me, no", the warrior replies equally softly and his eyes come to rest briefly on the other man's hand before returning to Ulfric's own. "I cannot speak for Jarl Igmund."

No, Ulfric realizes and clenches his fist, conscious that the action comes too late. His frantic, stuttering heartbeat slows down with comprehension. Igmund will not deliver him to anybody. He is going to need him to blackmail his father or he will find all of Eastmarch at his doorstep before the leaves turn golden with autumn's first chill.

His father is yet another thing Ulfric has not dared to let himself think about. By now his first, triumphant letter should have arrived. He winces with the thought and sinks back down on the cot, worn out by this brief exchange more than he was by the battle. He watches the lad watch him and his eyes follow the sound of a pebble as it is kicked to disappear forever in the dark beyond their cone of flickering light.

"The other guards treat you alright?", the soldier at long last asks, visibly uncomfortable after the turn their talk has taken.

"They don't treat me at all", Ulfric replies civilly enough. The only ones to come down here are the jailor, and only to bring him food and water and to empty his pot. And, once, that Imperial to read a verdict as false as Igmund's promise. From the other side of the room. Bloody coward.

He remembers all too well the way the doors have closed after the man's hurried departure, the sound one of finality.

"They're probably afraid you'll shout them to pieces", the lad remarks cheerfully.

"And I could." If not the bars, then at least those behind them. The remark does not provoke any response from Ulfric's companion and so he asks further "Where exactly am I, anyway?"

"In the dungeon beneath Markarth." As if it wasn't obvious. "And before you ask, you are better guarded than the Understone Keep and Cidhna Mine combined. And that's something."

It could be the truth, or, for all Ulfric knows, a blatant lie. He needs to find out more. Before he can do so, however, the soldier remembers the bag at his feet with a slight start.

"Oh. I brought you a few things." He looks up at Ulfric with apology, but there is no arguing with his directions. "I'll need you to face the wall, hands behind your head."

Ulfric gets up slowly. It takes him longer than usual. He despises it, having his back to another, but he wants to eat and so he complies. The other man must see or sense his reluctance.

"Don't try anything", he warns. "There's enough soldiers up there to make you regret it, trust me."

Trust. Ulfric almost begins to laugh, but decides not to because really there is nothing amusing about it at all. He knew a time when a Nord's word could be trusted. He also knows how little promises are worth, but he does as he is told. Whatever the lad has brought him, he is probably better off with it.

"That's not your head", the warrior says when the prisoner only stretches out his right arm.

A fact the jailor has pointed out several times already. Ulfric's reply is always the same. "I cannot lift my arm like that." He can, though it hurts, but the position allows him to watch the other man from the very corners of his eyes if he turns his head ever so slightly. Ulfric hears the jingle of keys, the scrape of the lock turning and a rustle as the bag is moved. The procedure is quickly over and the door closes again.

One chance wasted, and he wonders if there will be another. If there really is a guard waiting up there, ready to come running at the first sign of trouble, if he could get that Shout off in time.

Not if his visitor knows how to throw that small axe he carries at his hip. Not in his current state, anyway. But maybe next time. He only has to make sure there will be one and leaves the question of 'what then?' for another time to contemplate.

Ulfric lets his arms fall back to his sides and turns to open the bag and within he finds a bundle of furs, a thick blanket wrapped around a pitcher filled with water and a flat wooden basin. There is a piece of soap, food, and chew sticks and it is more than he has dared to hope for.

"You deserve this much at last", the lad mutters and it is too dark to tell if his face flushes with redness. From his tone Ulfric thinks it might. Maybe...an idea begins to form in the back of his mind.

"Will you come again?", the Jarl's son asks, abandoning the gift for the time being.

An eyebrow is raised in response to his terse question. "I thought you wanted to be left alone."

"I have changed my mind."

The lad nods after reflecting on the prisoner's plea for a brief while. "I'll be back tomorrow when my shift ends", he says.

Not that _when_ matters to Ulfric; down here time has lost all meaning. Yet he feels strangely grateful not to have been entirely forgotten and left on his own and hates himself for that sentiment.

* * *

**AN:** There's nothing to make one want to write about the Reach like a two week trek through the Dolomites *longing sigh*

BtS should update this week.


	3. Chapter 3

Ulfric is asleep the next time he hears the metallic jingle of keys and the doors to his prison slam shut, the sound echoing through the corridor. He jerks awake, but not up; consciousness leaving him disoriented and making the room around him spin. He spots the candle; it is a good bit shorter, but he could not have been asleep for long he thinks at the same time as he takes notice of somebody whistling as they descend the steps.

Ulfric blinks rapidly to keep his eyes from closing again, his heart pounding while his limbs disobey him. He usually is quick to rouse at the slightest of disturbances, but this time is different and he has to fight his tired body's demand for rest.

All he does anymore is sleep. The longer, the more exhausted he becomes.

But the footsteps are coming closer and he cannot breathe or move, feels as if some leaden weight was atop his chest, holding him in place. The warrior remembers the witch elves' magic, the green light they used to rob him of control, make him go limp and inert as they handled him.

When feeling floods him, a rush of warmth against the cold of fear, he rolls up to sit against the wall, just as his visitor comes into sight.

It is the boy. Again. At least he kept his word. Of all the people who would remember the promises they made him, it has to be the country bumpkin.

Ulfric cannot feel the arm he has lain on, but he rubs his forearm against his face, with more force than necessary. He is aware of the hot moisture of his pants against his clammy skin, and wonders what in Oblivion just happened to him. He never wishes to experience a terrifying numbness like before again.

"I have something for you", the soldier says in greeting, eager and with enough cheer to give the Jarl's son a toothache. He holds something up, a blurry shape that gleams golden in the dim light. Ulfric does not recognize the object, his heavy-lidded eyes failing to focus.

"What?", Ulfric growls. Sleep had made his voice rough and his throat sore. He is angry, at himself for being caught off-guard and with his defences down.

"Get your arse up and see for yourself", is the only answer he gets.

He does, not because he is told to, but because it is better to face the other man on his feet. The rush of blood to his head robs Ulfric of his sight and he has to wait for the darkness to pass and the subsequent specks of white to dissolve back into colours. The world returns and with it his sense of balance, disturbed only by a faint ringing in his ears. He rubs at his face with both hands and no matter how hard he tries to crack down on the yawn, it breaks free and he shakes his head, glaring at the man before him as tears prick at his eyes.

The lad is holding up an amulet of Talos, the miniature weapon spinning on a leather cord.

"That's not my amulet." Ulfric works his jaw; it aches and he has a feeling he has been clenching it. Thankfully, he does not remember his dream.

"No", the other Nord replies. "It's mine." He looks somewhat chagrined as he says, "It's just bronze...I think. We all got them before the battle."

The amulet is of poor workmanship, yes, it is one of the hundreds of identical ones Ulfric had ordered made for the soldiers. His own, the one that had been forged by his ancestor, is gone, taken from him, probably to serve as an addition to Igmund's treasury, as a token of his triumph.

Ulfric doubts that he will ever get it back and wonders what his father will say when he returns without it.

"Why are you giving it to me?", he asks, but takes the offered gift. The metal is warm against the palm of his hand.

He had not renounced his belief in Talos in the depths of a Thalmor torture chamber; he will not deny the god now. The pendant is, after all, a holy symbol.

"Talos worship has been outlawed again", the other Nord explains contritely.

"So you want me blamed instead of yourself?"

"Sure. Nobody suspects _you_ of Talos worship", the soldier bites back, quickly followed by, "I'm sorry." He genuinely appears to be. "I know what you did to bring it back."

"Do you?", Ulfric asks callously, wrapping the leather cord around his hand until it cuts a welt into the flesh. The boy knows nothing of what he had suffered. "What else do you know about me?"

It was meant as a jibe, a rhetorical question, but the lad obviously has no notion of such figures of speech.

"Not much", he replies with that damned honesty of his. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?", he prompts.

Ulfric spares the soldier a look, brief and sharp. For the amulet he is willing to indulge him. "Like what?"

"I don't know." The blonde Nord appears unsure now that the prisoner is playing along – he had not expected him to – and finally settles on "What's your favourite colour?"

"Blue", Ulfric responds truthfully. "The dark, greyish blue of the sky before a storm."

_The colour of the sky above Windhelm. _

He has no interest in his visitor's favourite colour, food, or hairstyle, or the name of his pet cat and he does not ask a question in return, wishing the other gone.

"So, your favourite colour is blue", the soldier repeats after a moment of uncomfortable silence, still lingering. "What else?"

Ulfric senses that he will not shut up and leave him be so he can pray. He did not want to be alone when he invited the boy back, but now he regrets his decision. He should work on winning the other Nord over, but he does not have the energy to muster a semblance of friendliness, to pretend to be interested in a _chat_.

'They might as well be efficient about this', he thinks, 'And cut through the small talk.' "I'm the only son of the Jarl of Eastmarch", Ulfric begins, "I was first summoned to High Hrothgar at the age of six, studied the Way of the Voice, and abandoned my training as a Greybeard to fight in the Great War. And now here I am. What is there to tell?"

"I'm a farmer. I killed lots of people and got famous for it", the warrior replies, matching Ulfric's bored tone beat for beat. "I'm sure there is more."

"I'm sure you have something better to do", the Jarl's son counters.

"I do", the lad admits. "What about you?"

_In fact, so do I_. Ulfric sits down again upon his cot, tries to force the other man's presence from his mind, to focus as he had learned to do in the monastery. For the first time since his incarceration it is working, and he finds peace, his hand clenched around the amulet unconsciously, as his breathing grows deep, rhythmical, his head clears of errant thoughts, and his heart of anger.

The lad gives up eventually and leaves and Ulfric relaxes some more, giving voice to his emotions, his thoughts. In the solitude of his confinement he finds solace. It does not last.

His visitor comes back again, with a three legged stool that he places in front of the cell and sits down upon it.

Ulfric's head snaps up, the prayer that falls from his lips stuttering, dying. "What are you doing?", he enquires with bewilderment.

"Keeping you company." The soldier leans his chin into his fists, elbows braced on his knees. He does not say anything else, but remains there, quiet, unmoving and observing.

Once shattered, he cannot go back into that frame of mind he had slipped into so easily before. Ulfric would have cursed, except that he does not want the other to know how much his presence is bothering him.

The silence is unsettling, drilling under his skin, even more than the other man's overt scrutiny.

"Fine!", Ulfric is willing to give an inch if it means gaining on the long run. He is feeling twitchy and irritated, but he can see the obstinate chuff has set himself up for a long, dull wait and it is a battle Ulfric can only lose. "Where do you want me to start?"

"How about in Eastmarch?", the lad suggests, with a smile of triumph that the Jarl's son would have loved to wipe off his face. The probability was higher the other warrior would wipe the floor with _him_.

"What is it like?"

"It is the oldest city in Tamriel, a monument to all mankind, built by the mighty Ysgramor of Atmora himself, in remembrance of Yngol, his son who was slain by Sea Ghosts." Ulfric has to swallow to continue, feeling both profoundly sad and disturbed. How to do the great City of Kings justice? How to explain _home_?

He finds that he must try, never realizing how his eyes glass over with longing. "Windhelm is built against a mountain chain, from which the black stone is made of had been quarried. The outlay is rectangular, and the walls measure eighty feet at the highest point, and twelve in breadth. Two bridges span the river, broad enough for two carriages to drive side by side and above them the battlements tower. The palace is located at the northernmost point and built like a citadel. It is said Ysgramor could rule the very winds from there. Sometimes, when the weather is fair and the mists set, you can see the sea from the watchtowers." Ulfric stops to draw breath and clear his throat; he has not spoken this much since his capture. But to each Nord the place of his birth was dear.

"It has been the capital of Skyrim", he resumes, "But was sacked by the Akavri in the second Era. Now is the capital of Eastmarch, the hold over which my father rules and the capital is in Haafingar. But anybody who dares compare Windhelm's grandeur to Solitude is either blind or weak of mind."

"I wouldn't know", the blond soldier interrupts with a sigh. "Markarth is the only city I've ever been to."

"Where did _you_ grow up anyway?", Ulfric directs the talk away from himself, annoyed at the inquisitiveness. He has said too much already.

"On a farm", the lad deadpans. "That's where most farmers come from."

Talos, help him. Ulfric grits his teeth, sets his jaw and forces some civility into his voice. "Well, what's it like _on a farm_?"


	4. Chapter 4

He listens but seldom talks - and he learns; about growing cabbages, and how to curdle cheese, about the best season for sowing wheat and how to help deliver a calf.

When he is not asleep, Ulfric watches the guttering flame of his candle dance in the ever-present draft and awaits the footsteps that will announce that he has company.

It is the only way to measure the passing of time down here. The jailor arrives sometime in the morning with food and a new candle and his other visitor comes in the evening to stay for an hour or two and when he leaves Ulfric curls up on his pallet and hopes for sleep to find him before the flashbacks do.

oooo

The lad pities him, he can tell. He brings clean water and food and Ulfric begins to feel grateful, because bad as things are they would be infinitely worse without those little gifts. He knows he shouldn't make much of it; the elves used a similar tactic on those of weaker wills, those who broke under the gentle pressure of a promise – to never be familiar with the underground rooms from which the smell of blood and the screams of the tortured welled up. Those who never had to suffer the rack and brand, or the hunger, pain and humiliation like their comrades who had not sold their honour for a few rotten comforts.

Even so, the day his friend does not show up, Ulfric worries. He wonders if they are going to change their approach now, if he will be asked for some small, seemingly insignificant favour. If he will have the strength to resist.

His hand twitches at the thought and he tries to massage the cramps out of it. His knee is stiff and his shoulder has become nearly immovable, from the damp, most likely. Not even his Nord blood can keep the cold at bay, and it seeps into his very bones, a brittle, sharp ache that makes him shiver and his teeth chatter.

But worst of all is the helplessness. His anger had kept him pacing through the first days, weeks even, but Ulfric finds it more and more difficult to keep his strength up. He spends hours lying on his shabby cot, indifferent, and stares at the stone walls. Tries hard not to think that his last bath must have been months ago and to ignore the spreading itch or the lesions where he had scratched himself bloody.

Dungeons are always crawling with vermin and he wonders if he is one of them, different only because he is aware of his own fate.

oooo

The day the footsteps come again – not the cautious shuffling gait of the weary jailor who has the unfortunate task of emptying his chamber pot, but the heavy, brisk spring of a warrior – Ulfric sits up, excited all of a sudden and with his heart beating wildly. He has learned to recognize his visitor by his step during the long months with nothing else to look forward to, but to listen to a voice that was not his own, muttering prayers.

"Where have you been?" Ulfric's tone is accusing when the lad comes into view at the bottom of the stairs.

"Out", the soldier replies unfazed and Ulfric is not sure if he is happier to see the man, the lamp he lights to drive away the heavy oppression of the surrounding darkness or the bag he places next to the bars. "Training." He grins, the fierce grin at odds with his calm voice and otherwise tranquil behaviour.

Ulfric does not ask what _training_ entails; after all, it was him who bestowed the honours upon the warrior for holding back the Forsworn in battle.

"So, the Greybeards", the lad says cheerfully, sitting down on the same low stool that had taken up permanent residence next to Ulfric's cell, like they had never interrupted their talk. Like he had not abandoned Ulfric these past weeks. "Who are they?"

The Jarl's son considers not to answer, to counter his damned happy demeanour with icy silence, but his resolve quickly crumbles. The jailor never talks and the gods too keep silent. Ulfric is weary of the quiet. The only connection to the outward world that he has is the man before him, and he is willing to share any news and to come down here, for whatever reasons. Maybe he feels guilt over his own rise to fame or responsible for the man who paved the way he now walks.

There is also a simpler truth. Ulfric does not want to be alone.

He moves to the cell's front, dragging over his pallet and leans against the wall. "I see I should start at the beginning."

He takes his time thinking about how he can best explain the solemn, hard grandeur that surrounds High Hrothgar and its residents. "The Greybeards live in seclusion near the top of the Throat of the World, the great mountain of Skyrim. The tallest mountain of all Tamriel. They're masters of the Way of the Voice. Of Shouting."

The soldier's brows furrow and he looks confused; and the thought strikes Ulfric that he has to go back even further, that not everybody has grown up on the tales of old.

"What do you know about Shouts?", he asks with a sigh.

"Less than you, I guess", comes the reluctant answer.

Ulfric watches the lad's jaw set in a stubborn expression and snorts, partly in amusement and partly in disdain for such ignorance. _Too proud to admit that he knows nothing. _"That wouldn't be hard", he replies and continues, "I know more than most. I was chosen when I was just a boy to become a Greybeard myself."

He does not speak of his feelings, the pride of his father, the apprehension of being there all on his own, or the relief when his sisters accompany him. Of how the air is laden with history and can make you feel light-headed from the height or of the solace one can find in the tranquillity of the monastery.

"The Way of the Voice is an ancient, spiritual form of magic in which you project your vital essence into a Thu'um or Shout", Ulfric explains and sees as the lad rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. He has to chuckle despite the longing ache in his chest and the memories, now bittersweet.

"Quite a mouthful, isn't it?", the soldier asks with a small smile pulling at his lips and Ulfric feels himself responding in like before he resumes.

"Anybody can learn how to use the Thu'um although it would take most years before they could even attempt a single Shout."

"Most people? But not you." The lad regards Ulfric with sharp eyes. He may be uneducated, but he is clever.

"No, not me." Ulfric is not willing to discuss that. "And, of course, the Dragonborn is rumoured to be different", he diverts the talk, aware that the other man will notice, but with hope that he will not ask. He never did, so far.

The lad sits up straighter at the mention of the legendary figure. "Who's that?"

"The old tales tell of Dragonborn heroes who slew dragons and took their power. Of course, they are just that: tales."

"So they are not real?"

"Of course they are", Ulfric scoffs. "But they are also a thing of the past. Many possessed the blood of dragons back then; Wulfhearth, whom we call Ysmir, Jurgen Windcaller and, of course, Tiber Septim. Talos. The founder of the Empire and the Septim bloodline; he was the last. There has not been a Dragonborn in almost six hundred years since his death."

"How does it work? Taking a dragon's power?"

Ulfric has asked himself the very same thing on many a night. After all, the Greybeards' purpose was to find and guide the dovahkiin and many volumes on the topic filled the library, yet none could give an answer to that very question and Ulfric has read them all. "Nobody knows for sure."

"You have a theory about that?"

"Many. And I doubt you would understand a single one."

Instead of taking offence the soldier just sighs and stretches out his legs. "Says the man who asked why we plant in First Seed. Don't call others stupid if you can't feed yourself", he rebukes offhandedly, accustomed to the occasionally less than courteous replies by now.

Ulfric grunts in answer, because there is truth in that. For all his knowledge he is the one behind bars.

"Go on", the other man prompts, eager for more.

It takes the Jarl's son a while to compose himself. "It was a great honour to have been summoned", he starts, faltering, before he resumes more firmly. "The Greybeards speak to very few- in fact, they hardly speak at all, for their voices are so powerful they could bring down the very mountain they stand upon. I spent almost ten years at High Hrothgar, learning the Way of the Voice. They taught me how to Shout."

"Do you miss it?" The question stings in its accuracy and slices through Ulfric's self-imposed detachment.

"I miss a lot of things and the peace of High Hrothgar is not the least of them." It comes out more harshly than he wanted it to.

The lad actually winces. "I'm sorry."

"Save your pity." Ulfric neither wants it, nor does he need it. He had lived through worse, without the churl.

The soldier nods, but soon after he cocks his head, points his chin in the prisoner's direction. "What's wrong with your hand?"

"Nothing", the Jarl's son replies automatically, his heartbeat picking up. His visitor is too perceptive for his own good. Ulfric decides he no longer wishes for this talk to continue and gets up to withdraw into the corner that is his sleeping place.

The other man's next words stop him dead in his tracks.

"The guards tell me they heard you screaming." When there is no reaction from the prisoner, the soldier quietly adds "Every night."

After all this time one remark is all it takes to give Ulfric the cold sweats. He'd retreat further if his muscles had not locked so hard he can barely force his mouth open to hiss, "Get out!"

The lad cowers down in front of the cell under the hateful glare of the older man, still speaking softly. "You move like you're in a lot of pain." He looks around, as if seeing their surroundings for the first time. "I guess this place isn't exactly helping, either."

There is no reaction from the Jarl's son; he does not give the impression of having heard a single word.

"I'll try to put in a good word with the Jarl for you", the blond soldier finally says and Ulfric chokes on his next breath at the mention of the man who put him here in first place, his hands balling into fists.

After a long moment in which neither moves, the soldier leaves. He does not come back this time.

* * *

**AN:** I'm working on the next chapter of HT, it should be up this week.


End file.
